I should be in bed.

Asleep.

I am afraid to close my eyes. I don’t know what that being that has taken over Bug is plotting next. They say there is no rest for the wicked. They lie. The wicked is face down in a puddle of drool, dreaming of confetti parties with Mommy’s freshly pulled hair. The moment I curl my huddled mass into the fetal position, I know I shall feel eyes upon me. Big, brown eyes sparkling with ill intent. Plotting revenge for the half of a dropper of Tylenol I got down her throat, one fourth of the dropper in her eye and the other fourth on beloved Pooh-bear. Somehow different species can procreate. My mind fails me when I try to recall the torrid love affair I had with an owl. Nothing else could explain how I could hold her body down flat on the floor, and upon seeing a medicine dropper, her head can spin completely the opposite direction. I am feeling a strange sensation in my lower body. I think my liver is shutting down. That is what I get for trying to show her 50 times that Tylenol really does taste good.

I have heard the scratching of tiny fingernails upon the crib rails.

She beckons again.

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